


A Small Collection of Memories

by Hope



Category: Lord of the Rings - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-07-17
Updated: 2002-07-17
Packaged: 2017-10-02 13:36:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>approaching Mordor, Sam makes some observations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Small Collection of Memories

He'd almost thought Frodo was lost in the Marshes. Struggling on with his head down and neck aching as if it were gripped in pincers; turning to be confronted with a larger ache - _Where was Frodo?_

Virtually dragging his master away from the foul-smelling pools of filth, tainted pricks of light not stars reflected in Frodo's blank gaze. Frodo's jaw slack, expressionless. Clothes filthy, hands filthy, gripping at the filthy collar of his off-white shirt. _Where was Frodo?_

Hearing Gollum's constant hissing and seeing the hungry glow of his eyes even when he wasn't close. Imagining the crack of bones between Gollum's sharp teeth as he held Frodo's lifeless body in his arms, peering up at the murky sky through sparse brambles or tufts of overgrown blade-like grass . . . Though Sam's senses told him that the creature had taken his unspeakable business out of their immediate vicinity.

The marshes died out; the landscape around them changing gradually from the never-ending bog to a pathless expanse of dry mud, cracked like the fine creases on the backs of Sam's hands from the sun's constant glare. The mountains rose before them, rearing up blackly and mirroring the bitter taste of fear in his mouth, a nameless, bodiless fear that grew with every step he took; and another one becoming more familiar - Frodo's silence, the gradual slumping of his shoulders, a counterpount to the increasingly swollen mountains, thrust up before them. The lack of a smile, laughter, a soft word. Frodo's hoarse, expressionless voice echoed in his ears long after he had spoken: _"It's the Ring. It's getting heavier."_

And this place, oh this place brought an entirely new pain to him. _"I feel sick"_ he had gasped, a desperately inadequate expression of his feelings, but needed to break the foul silence as the sun rose, light revealing in painful clarity ash-heaps, gasping pits . . . A defouled land, uncleansable. Nothing would grow here, not ever.

And more pains, more fears insinuated themselves into Sam's tortured thoughts; and he strained so hard to hear the pre-warning of Gollum's own sibilance that he swore he could hear the Gaffer, whistling softly to himself in the dawn light as he stood outside the round, yellow door of number 3 Bagshot Row and lit his pipe, puffing out clouds of smoke warmer than the softly glowing mist surrounding him.

And Ithilien . . . green and brown almost refreshing after the overwhelming black horror of the Gate. _Almost_. There was growth here, yes, but below the immediate surface it was wrong, tainted. From the corner of his eye he could almost fool himself into believing it was real . . . into believing it was alive. But he was the only living thing here. _And Frodo. . ._

And when they made love Frodo moved against him with an urgency seemingly born of desperation; kneeling into eachother or astride eachother, not daring to even lie down in the stolen moments when Gollum was _"hungry, precious"_. That was why, Sam told himself, that was why it was hard and fast over in a fistful of heartbeats. That was why the only sounds Frodo made were drowning gasps, why his body tensed into a rictus and arched away from Sam when he came. Why his only contact with Sam was tense thighs clasping his hips, his fists gripping Sam's upper arms as Sam's hands held his waist. Not unclothed. Not tender. Not making love like rediscovery in Rivendell, or with words and subtle caresses in Hollin. Not like the blind sensation of Moria. The affirmation of life in Lorien.

Henneth Annun had offered _some_ relief . . . Though a part of Sam thought it a little strange that they could find such a haven here while it was Faramir's brother -- so similar -- that had driven them away in the first place.

_"It wasn't **him**,"_ Frodo had scolded lightly when Sam aired his thoughts, wrapped closely around Frodo, half-lost between the heartbeats moving steadily against his ear. _"It was all of them."_ The rhythm seemed almost to slow, and a quick glance upward showed him Frodo's eyes sinking back into distance again. Sam kissed him quickly, and hard. Frodo laughed softly. _"And none."_ His hand crept to his chest. _"One by one . . ."_

And Cirith Ungol. Endless _stairs_; climbing until he could almost believe he'd never known anything else except this forced, painful rhythm; Frodo silent but for harsh, grating breaths. Sam torn between the fervent willing for the next step to be the last and the fervent willing that breath _not_ to be the last . . .

 

And Frodo. Frodo. A small collection of memories Sam would cherish for the short duration of the rest of his life (though it felt as if it had ended already). Beacons in the darkness.

Frodo's laugh, echoing up like light flaring amongst the dark, damp stones.

Frodo's cry of _"Galadriel!"_ and another light blazing in Frodo's grasp; blazing up in response to it's bearer, banishing a darkness that exceeded anything Sam had known up until then.

The joy in Frodo's voice as he ran from that darkness, ringing out clear like a bell, like starlight. As he escaped. Free.

_Frodo._

"Master, dear master," Sam whispered; beyond sobbing. "Goodbye."

**Author's Note:**

> http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/2992.html


End file.
